Deliver Us from Evil, Part II: The Road to Reichenbach
by Aleine Skyfire
Summary: Time is running out for Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty. They can't keep their war private much longer, and when war does break loose, it will have terrible consequences for all concerned. Consequences Holmes means to avoid, even if it leads to a Swiss waterfall. Second part in a series, sequel to Mortality.
1. Prologue: Standing Fast

**Author's Note:**

First, a word of apology for missing the release date by three days. My blushes!

Second, _Mortality_ is still in the redrafting process, NaNo is coming up, college is underway, a Doctor Who/Sherlock Holmes series is in the works with the talented Riandra… and I have absolutely no first chapter for this novel. Terribly sorry, but I truly have no idea when I'll be able to update this. However, keep an eye out on all my sites (a master-list ought to be available soon on my blog), 'cos you just never know when you'll get sneak previews!

Third, same drill as _Mortality_. Feedback and constructive crit are highly prized and dolled-up with ribbons on my wall! …well, not exactly, but you lovely people carried me through some really dark times, both in this story and in my own life, with your wonderful reviews.

Fourth… I'll repeat what I said in _Mortality_'s epilogue: _Road_ will take some time to get off the ground, but I promise you that it will be worth it. So please, do enjoy this brief but sincere offering!

* * *

_© 2012 by Aleine Skyfire._

_All rights reserved._

* * *

**_Deliver Us from Evil, A Sherlock Holmes Saga_**

**_Part II: The Road to Reichenbach_**

* * *

_Time is running out for Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty. They can't keep their war private much longer, and when war does break loose, it will have terrible consequences for all concerned. Consequences Holmes means to avoid, even if it leads to a Swiss waterfall. Sequel to Mortality._

* * *

==**Prologue**==

**Standing Fast**

"Danger is part of my trade."

The words ring as hollowly in my own ears as surely they must in my opponent's. He favours me with the expression of a teacher disappointed in his prize pupil, and I very nearly shudder. This man sets my nerves on edge and my scars tingling. Four months, it seems, have not been long enough to soften those nightmarish memories.

"This is not danger," he says sternly. "It is inevitable destruction. You stand in the way not merely of an individual but of a mighty organisation, the full extent of which you, with all your cleverness, have been unable to realise."

My eyes narrow as his dark gaze bears down on me, a void seeking to devour all in its path. I am not a fanciful man, but looking into his eyes must surely be like catching a glimpse of Hell.

"You must stand clear, Mr. Holmes," he continues, "or be trodden under foot."

He has already trodden me under foot, once, and I will die before I allow him to do so again. "I am afraid," I say, affecting a sigh, "that in the pleasure of this conversation I am neglecting business of importance which awaits me elsewhere." It is true enough: Mycroft and Patterson must be informed of this latest turn of events. Perhaps Lestrade, as well—I seem to be trusting Patterson less and less these days. His arrogance is cause for concern.

James Moriarty studies me a moment, shaking his head in ostensible sorrow. "Well, well. It seems a pity, but I have done what I could." He turns away, reaching for his walking stick. "I know every move of your game."

He is bluffing. He must be.

Something in my expression must have given me away, for one corner of his mouth draws upward as he returns his attention to me. "Ah, you doubt me. But I know the very day set aside for my arrest."

A leak. We have a leak somewhere, somewhere in the Yard. Lestrade, at least, must know. Gregson, as well, and perhaps Bradstreet and MacDonald. Not Patterson… But Moriarty did not name the day. Is he bluffing, or is he in earnest? I am, after all, playing chess with the greatest chess master of them all.

His hand moves over his stick in a motion very like the cocking of a rifle. The click that splits the air confirms that fear, and I reach for my revolver…

Only for Moriarty to move more swiftly, staying my hand with the barrel of his gun, a palpable threat. "It has been a duel between you and me, Mr. Holmes."

A duel. An interesting choice of words. If one were to strip this conflict down to myself and the Professor, I suppose that it is indeed a duel—a clash of wits between two of the greatest intellects in the Empire.

The situation is indeed impossible, one in which it is inconceivable that both parties should walk away from it alive. I do not expect to do so, myself—the stakes have been raised too high. My sole regret is in leaving John and Mary Watson, two persons whom I love dearest and best in the world.

"If you are clever enough to bring destruction upon me, rest assured that I shall do as much to you."

Staring down the most dangerous man I have ever had the privilege of facing, I lift my chin with the solid dignity of a noble line of English gentry. "You have paid me several compliments, _Mr_. Moriarty." My voice is not as even as I should like, because, for all my resolve, this man commands fear by his very presence. Certainly, it is no easy thing to maintain calm before the man who came so very close to destroying me but a few months ago. "Let me pay you one in return when I say that if I were assured of the former eventuality, I would, in the interests of the public, _cheerfully_ accept the latter."

Good heavens. My own audacity astounds _me_ at times.

"I can promise you the one, but _not_ the other," he snarls. He turns away and comes just short of storming out of the sitting room.

I collapse into my chair, feeling as if the floor has been snatched out from under me and as if the weight of the world has suddenly been lifted off my shoulders. Ah, I had not even realised that I was holding my breath until now. Barring the events of the past year, I have not been so unnerved in quite some time—since the Baskerville case, as a matter of fact. My fingers find my pipe and toy with it of their own volition as I consider this latest turn of events.

A duel, said he. Accurate, but it may be better still to call this a war—a war I was fighting long before I even knew my opponent, concealed within his tangled web. But unlike a war fought on the battlefield, this shall not end in surrender, either his or mine.

It shall end in destruction, as it must.

God help me in the days to come.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Dialogue: 90% Canon.

Expressions & body language: 100% Jeremy Brett and Eric Porter.

Holmes's own thoughts: 99% me.

I can't tell you how excited I am to finally have this online. Of course, as with _Mortality_, the first chapter will fall back several months in time to bring us up to speed. Planning out the first half of this novel has been incredibly hard, partially because I was pushing myself too hard in the wrong direction. I was expecting a fantastic crime novel, and I couldn't do it. I made myself angry. Eventually, I came to understand that I was expecting the wrong kind of novel out of myself. So, like _Mortality_, this novel will be very character-centric, but I also think that, for the material I'm working with, this will work. And I am excited.

A final word? Do keep a look out in the Sherlock Holmes/Doctor Who crossover section for _Children of Time, Episode 1: Smith and Holmes_! Stay tuned!

_**Please review!**_


	2. I: The Two Selves Meet

**Author's Note:**

Whoa, here we are again! Please don't be too angry or frustrated with me—it took a lot just to get this bit out, and this was a mere editing of an older (and already published) scene! I do have some important news regarding this book as it stands on FFN:

I'm going to post it as a **serial fic** rather than a novel. Therefore, I will be posting individual scenes at a time, and not always chronologically, either. This ought to help me in the inevitable scene-shuffling in the editing stage, with the added bonus that my scenes ought (I hope) to be longer and better quality than they were in _Mortality_.

With that in mind, the following introductory scene first appeared in the _Tales from the Great Hiatus_ collection. I hope you enjoy it, nonetheless, here in its proper place, and I hope to have something brand new in the not-too-distant future to make up for the repeat!

**To my reviewers:**

Azolean: Aw, hey, I squeal all the time at inbox alerts. ;) Glad you loved the prologue so much! I was happy with my polishing job, certainly… and, as I think you know, I love digging into Holmes's head! Pfft, so much for NaNo… got less than 8,000 words and fizzled out. *sigh* Mebbe next time. Hope this hasn't been too long and agonizing of a wait, and thanks so much for all the encouragment!

Ennui Enigma: Squee, thank you so much!

i am sherlocked 221B: Thanks so much! Well, fortunately for everyone, Reichenbach won't be coming for quite a while—quite likely not until after _Sherlock_'s version of "The Empty House". =D

Ranger-Nova: Thanks very much, darlin', and God bless!

Emily-Of-Midgard: Tee-hee, well, I intend my books from here on out to be published in paper, so no worries about electronic readers! Wow, epic? Eeee, thank you! Trust me, praise is every bit as helpful as criticism—it's terribly encouraging and keeps me going. Thank you very much!

2ndbestdetective: Oh, I know—it's one of my favorite scenes, too. In my mind, there's just such a powerful embodiment of Good vs. Evil in that all-too-brief conversation. Well, I can only hope that the story will turn out to be as epic as people are hoping for! Thanks muchly!

SheWhoScrawls: Thank you very much! Squee, another Porter!Moriarty fan! The man just does not get enough praise for that role, when he was so brilliant in it. College is going very well, thank you, and God bless you, too! Thanks again!

Natali: Thank you! Here, have a chapter! :)

* * *

_© 2013 by Aleine Skyfire._

_All rights reserved._

* * *

**==I. The Two Selves Meet==**

_**Three months earlier…**_

_**Mid-January, 1891: New Scotland Yard**_

Sherlock Holmes supported his weight on his walking stick. His legs were only just regaining their strength, and he sometimes fell victim to dizzy spells. Thus far, however, no one in France seemed to have noticed his poor physical condition—his acting skills were serving him well.

A few Yarders acknowledged his presence, greeting him as they passed—Hopkins being particularly effusive. Another genuine admirer in the Yard, Holmes suspected, alongside MacDonald. Quite honestly, it puzzled him: from the rest of the official force, the best reception he could hope for was tolerance and sometimes camaraderie. Bradstreet was a good example of the latter. Lestrade, on the other hand, did not even bother being tolerant—Holmes's presence was one to which he'd resigned himself long ago. _And speak of the devil…_

"Ah, good morning, Mr. Holmes." The smaller man's expression was grim but relieved. "It's good to see you up and about again."

In other words: _I am glad to see you alive yet_.

Holmes cocked his head and gave a little smile. Dear Lestrade. "Good morning to you, Inspector."

"And how is France?" The question was, of course, obligatory, especially as Lestrade did not look particularly interested in the state of the country to which everyone assumed he belonged.

"France is as French as Great Britain is British," Holmes said drily, "and that is all that I have to say upon the matter."

Lestrade pursed his lips in amusement. "Fair enough." His dark eyes studied his younger colleague for a moment. "You look a bit peckish, I must say, and don't think I can't see that you are depending on that walking stick."

Holmes chuckled slightly. "Quite right on both accounts. I must confess that crossing the Channel was the first time I've ever fallen prey to seasickness."

Lestrade winced sympathetically. "Wintertime, sir. Wintertime will do that to you."

"Indeed. Shall we?" Holmes gestured down the hall, all but twitching in place.

The Inspector sighed. "Come along, then." A few doors down brought them to Lestrade's office, and the Yarder pushed the door open and entered first. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Inspector Daniel Patterson."

Sherlock Holmes froze, startled speechless for one of the few times in his life.

A tall man rose to greet him from a chair before Lestrade's desk. "Good morning, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes nodded slowly. "Good morning, Inspector." Removing his top hat, he took a seat, and Inspector Patterson resumed his, lacing his fingers together and looking nothing so much as like a self-portrait Holmes had once sketched.

_Remarkable_ was far too mild a word for it, and _incredible_ too cliché.

Holmes shot Lestrade a lightning-swift look of astonishment, silently pleading that some sense be made of this extraordinary phenomenon. The smaller man merely shrugged minutely before rounding the desk to take his own seat, leaving Holmes a moment to appraise Daniel Patterson. Unwed, upper middle-class, left-handed, injured left leg, born in Kensington, educated in Eton before choosing criminal investigation rather than a gentleman's profession.

Patterson's great intellect was readily apparent—in fact, it was radiant. Holmes was forced to recant on his opinion of Gregson as the Yard's cleverest man. Gregson was bright, sharp, and quite showy about it, while Patterson's brilliance was quiet, veiled, and all the more powerful for it. That had been one of the two factors which had startled Holmes. The other was far more obvious.

Daniel Patterson nearly resembled Sherlock Holmes enough to be his twin.

Patterson was roughly the same height and quite the same build and colouring. There were but two immediate differences which spoiled the illusion of twin-hood: the Inspector's blue eyes as opposed to Holmes's grey, and the crystalline hardness of the official detective's aquiline features. Patterson was quite a few years older (with grey flecks in his hair) or else aged prematurely, and his ice-blue eyes were jaded in a way that Holmes suddenly hoped never to achieve.

The amateur detective clapped his hands together beneath his chin and leaned back in his chair. "Inspector Patterson, my brother has informed me that you were chosen to lead Scotland Yard's war on Professor Moriarty. I regret that I have been unable to meet you in person before now. It is also my understanding that I owe you a personal debt."

Patterson's fingers unlaced, and his hands spread themselves flat on his thighs—Holmes drank in every twitch, every nuance of expression, to read this diamond-hard man. "I did no more than my duty, Mr. Holmes." Precise and flawless diction, reinforcing Holmes's deductions of higher birth and better education than most Yarders. Holmes also noted that the man's left hand curved protectively over his left leg.

"Be that as it may, Inspector, I must congratulate you," Holmes said evenly. He was quite aware that he himself was being studied, a sensation he found most discomfiting. "It takes a keen mind to outmanoeuvre the Napoleon of Crime."

Patterson accepted that with a tilt of his head, but the expression that crossed his uncomfortably familiar features was revealing. Brilliant and arrogant. Holmes made a mental note to show a tad more humility to Watson and Lestrade in the future—being dosed with his own medicine was positively rankling.

"I spent several years infiltrating the Professor's organisation," said Patterson. "As I believe your brother has already informed you."

"Quite. Naturally, you require all the information I have accumulated on Moriarty from the outside."

"Naturally."

Holmes eyed the older man. "Surely the reports from your fellow inspectors ought to be enough." Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Lestrade shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

Patterson shook his head with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "It won't do, sir. It really won't. You have information to which no one else has been privy—you would not still be alive if you did not."

Holmes's eyes narrowed of their own accord. "Patterson, I have given the Yard everything they need to know. All else are vague will-o'-the-wisps."

"And how else, Mr. Holmes, would you describe Moriarty's actions?"

Holmes straightened in his chair. "Inspector, you must understand that I am needed in France. Even now, my case records and common-place books are there, as I make it a point to bring such essential items with me on extended stays. I can be here in London only for the day, and I must take the late boat train back to Dover. This necessitates communiqués across the Channel, which, in turn, heightens the risk of Moriarty learning our plans."

Patterson took it all calmly. "Every war runs its risks."

Lestrade stirred again, angrily, but stilled at a reassuring glance from Holmes. "Very well, Inspector," the amateur of the group said coolly. "You may relay that to the wives and children of the men who shan't be coming home when all is said and done."

He caught a vindicated expression from Lestrade out of the corner of his eye. Patterson's blue eyes narrowed. "Every man who takes up the badge knows that he might die in the line of duty, and every woman who marries such a man understands this."

"And every child born to those policemen wants his father to _come home_," Lestrade snapped. "But you wouldn't understand that, Patterson, would you?"

Holmes raised his eyebrows fractionally while Patterson's drew together sharply. "Did I say anything, Lestrade," Patterson said quietly, "that was not a _fact_?"

The challenge hung heavy in the air amidst the three of them. Lestrade glared at Patterson, and Patterson stared back, his gaze cold as winter and just as lifeless. The tension was thick enough to slice with a sabre.

"_Enough_." Sherlock Holmes was younger than either Inspector, but, when he chose to use the power of his voice and presence, the Chief Inspector himself could not match him. …which had been proven in the past, much to Lestrade's benefit. He stood, using the advantage of his height on the seated Yarders, and replaced his top hat.

"Inspector Patterson, I can be reached at this address." He offered the man a card, which was taken in silence. "If I am out of town, my mail shall be forwarded to my current location. Good day, Patterson." He touched a finger to the brim of his hat, then turned to Lestrade. "Good day, Lestrade, and do give my regards to your family."

Lestrade's large dark eyes widened further, but he would get no explanation out of Holmes, who swept out of the room, his mind racing to process things. For all his arrogance and coldness, Patterson had a weakness, and Holmes had caught a glimpse of it during that brief interview. Fear.

He was afraid of Moriarty.

It wasn't the healthy fear that any Yarder should have of a criminal so brilliant, but an abiding though well-concealed terror—one that Holmes understood all too well. The hand covering that game leg so protectively… Patterson, too, had been tortured by Moriarty's men.

Holmes sighed. He himself was but thirty-two years of age—nearly thirty-three, now—yet he felt old. He felt quite old. The sensation was neither new nor unwelcome. Like his apparent double, he had experienced much in his brief time on this earth. His life was hastening towards its climax in this, his greatest struggle against a mind equally as brilliant as his own.

What would come next? Certainly, no foe so worthy of his steel would ever come his way again, if he even survived this, which he was coming to doubt sincerely.

He was looking after himself with a paranoia that would have made Watson proud. He could and would survive 'til he saw Moriarty standing in the dock, if he could manage it. If not, well… he was fully prepared to forgo his own life in order to end Moriarty's. If that was what it took, so be it.

To every man, after all, comes a time to die.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

I really hope those of you who read the original version of this scene weren't bored! I did do quite a bit of polishing…

So, next up! Either we might get an idea of what Holmes is doing in France (I can guarantee it has nothing to do with the _Mona Lisa_, wink-wink), or we'll be taking a look at our favorite villainous duo. No guarantees as to _when_, either—just keep your eyes peeled!

_**And please review!**_


	3. II: The Louvre

**Author's Note:**

I'm baaaaack! And this time with something _completely new_ for this story! Thank spring vacation and, actually, creative inspiration from Tumblr! Also, thank MadameGiry25: a comment from her inspired the framework for this scene!

**To my reviewers:**

Aragonite: Breathless, ooo! Thank you very much!

Natali: Thank you so much! (And don't worry: your English is just fine!)

SheWhoScrawls: Ah, squeeee, thank you! Eep, I love the France line, too. And… wow, a role model? Seriously? *blushes* What an honor! Thank you very much!

Ennui Enigma: Wow, thank you! Eeeee, so glad people like the France line~! Just… thanks for everything!

MadameGiry25: Sweetheart, I totally understand! Besides which, as I've said a million times: _I am a terrible reviewer_. So I can't even complain. ;D As far as the tone of the prologue is concerned, the original piece itself (from AMM) does predate _Mortality_ by a few months… and then the rewrite for this book came over a year after _Mortality_ was started—perhaps that may have something to do with it…? I understand what you're saying, and I can't put my finger on it, either! =) Anyhoo… squeeee, perfect Holmes voice and seamless flow! *bounces* I had fun with the scene, definitely. And I've read the latest part of _The Sickening Sport_! I'm so sorry I haven't reviewed sooner! =( Ah, the walking stick line! From the very beginning of _Mortality_, I had it in my head that Holmes would, one way or another, have difficulty walking. I like it as the opening line for this chapter because it's so unassuming, except that… Sherlock Holmes is supporting his weight on his walking stick, you know? Anyway, thank you! Hopkins _is_ fun. I think you could almost look at him and say "Oh, wee lamb," like Merida in _Brave_. =) And, yes, dodging dialogue—I've found that I _love_ subtext-rich dialogue. It's so powerful! *giggles at the Jeremy Brett bit* But, oh boy, let me tell ya: Holmes vs. Patterson is no easy thing! Not at all… I think that, right from the outset, Holmes distrusts Patterson actually _because_ he's so cold, which puts Holmes in mind of Moriarty. Patterson, on the other hand, is quite willing to work with Holmes but wants to be in charge of the situation, Holmes included. I think that's going to be the set-up for their interactions throughout the book. Ah, France. I still need to figure out France, myself. *sigh* As for the _Mona Lisa_… *whistles innocently* Anyway… asdfjkl; thank you so much for everything! *big hug*

Azolean: Squeeee, thank you! Patterson/Holmes comparisons/interactions will never cease to be fun. Argh, you know what? GET AFTER ME TO READ YOUR FICS, OKAY? I mean it! Bug me! I ought to be reading SH fic right now and I haven't been because I forget & etc. Having a reminder would be helpful, for sure! If your NaNo novel is still torturing you, I'd say you're the real lucky one, hon. ;) Means that your brain is on the right wavelength and all!

* * *

_© 2013 by Aleine Skyfire._

_All rights reserved._

* * *

**==II. The Louvre==**

The _Mona Lisa_ smiled at him.

James Moriarty tended to view works of art with clinical detachment—they were objects of value, items with which he had done business many times on the shadow market. Yet even his scientific mind could not deny the singular majesty of da Vinci's masterpiece. Indeed, he indulged himself in the sentiment that her mysterious smile surreptitiously mocked the fickle world that held her in such high esteem.

Beside him, Moran cast an avaricious eye over the painting. "One could get the ransom of an emperor out of this one," the Colonel mused. Not loudly at all: they were in the Louvre, after all.

Moriarty could only shake his head: Moran was as good a leader as one could wish to find and a more-than-adequate lieutenant, but the man wanted something in terms of visionary thinking. Simply, any at all. Moran lived in and solely for the present, despite Moriarty's best efforts to expand his mind to consider past and future, as well. The man refused to do so. Moriarty knew it to be the Colonel's way of dealing with his past and the small spark of conscience he possessed yet.

That philosophy, more than anything other dissimilarity, would always divide them in their thinking.

"Indeed," said the professor, "one could acquire the ransom of _several_ emperors and not attain her full worth. The lady with the mysterious smile is entirely one of a kind and therefore literally priceless. One could obtain the _Mona Lisa_, copy her, pass off the forgeries as the original on the market, and do so for decades without attaining her full worth."

Moran pursed his lips in a silent whistle. "But all the living that could be got out of her in the meantime…"

_Ah, Moran_. "If you truly wish the lady taken into our custody, my dear Colonel… I may, in time, be persuaded to consider it."

The hunter eyed him. "I think it worth at least consideration, sir. I do realise that other things—as well as people—take priority."

Moriarty smiled thinly at the oblique reference to Sherlock Holmes. "Quite so." Holmes took the very highest priority. And speak of the devil…

The Great Detective himself stood not far off, intently studying the painting before him. Moriarty's lips twitched: the odds were quite against such a chance encounter. Despite his best efforts, the leak in his organisation clearly remained unplugged.

He touched Moran's arm lightly. "My dear Colonel," he murmured, "I do believe a work ahead clamours for our attention."

Moran frowned, turned, and stiffened, then slowly turned back to Moriarty. "I thought that he was in the southern regions," the Colonel hissed in a whisper.

"No longer, clearly."

Holmes chose that moment to turn, and when he did, his gaze met Moriarty's. The detective's large grey eyes widened momentarily, and Moriarty thought he beheld a glimmer of defiance in them. Moriarty gazed back steadily: evidently, the boy refused to see that he was hopelessly outmatched. This contest lay not merely between two individuals…

Holmes tilted his head to one side, and his eyes hardened. Outmatched he may be, but certainly he remained a formidable opponent. He turned, then, and strode off, only just depending upon his walking stick.

The tension radiating from Moran was palpable. "How much longer shall you allow him to carry on?"

Moriarty watched as the detective disappeared amongst the other visitors. "As long as I must," he said calmly, "and, indeed, not much longer, my dear Moran, I assure you. My first attempt to deal with the Great Detective went awry—I fully intend to succeed this time."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Y'see what I did there? *bounces* You see what I did there? …I had fun with that. I also wrote this scene down in my DUE notebook, which was awesomely fun. Writing things down rather than typing them out really is as good for you as they say!

Anyway, even if I couldn't use Granada's _Mona Lisa_ plot… thanks to 'Giry's comment, I had to reference it, at least! It provided an excellent framework for the scene, and, even better, served to illustrate the differences between Moriarty and Moran quite nicely. (I intend to go back later and write something that will explain _why_ they are in France—as for being in the Louvre itself… they're gentlemen. That's what gentlemen do. *grins*)

As for what Holmes is doing in France… I'm still sorting that out. Got research to do… yuck. (I don't mind research: I _do_ mind when I can't find what I'm looking for!) In the meantime, the next installment may well be about the Watsons. I want more Mary. :) No guarantees when, though I'll do my best to work hard.

_**Stay tuned, and please review!**_


End file.
